He was watching her with his head tipped to one side, a strand of black hair slipping down to slice across his brow. ‘Perhaps now would be a good time to go into supper,’ he suggested, and she was quick to agree.
CHAPTER TWO
SUPPER was thick medallions of grilled beef, wild rice, and chilled asparagus spears seasoned with dill. They ate at one end of a table large enough to seat twenty, in a formal dining-room every bit as elegant as the rest of the house.
Marcus served the meal personally, bringing covered dishes through a swinging door she assumed led to the kitchen, but the silence as they ate seemed deep and unnatural. After he’d cleared the dishes himself he brought in coffee. Rebecca sipped delicately from a nearly transparent bone-china cup, then leaned back in her chair. ‘That was marvelous. I’d like to compliment your cook, if I may.’
‘You’re looking at the cook.’ He met her questioning glance with a faint smile. ‘The beef has been slowroasting all day. The rest was prepared and waiting. And thanks for the compliment.’
She thought about that for a moment—about Marcus cooking the meal, serving the meal…Finally the full meaning of the silent house sank in. ‘Servants’ night off?’ she asked.
He raised his eyes slowly and looked at her. ‘During harvest I keep a full staff, but in the off-season I enjoy my privacy. I do fairly well in the kitchen, and a cleaning service comes in once a week to take care of the rest.’
‘Oh.’
He studied her openly, with a hard glint in those stormy gray eyes she found unsettling. ‘Are you afraid to be here alone with me?’
She sipped water from an exquisite goblet, fingering the deep indentations in the crystal, stalling for time. She wasn’t really afraid of being alone with him—although perhaps she should have been.
‘I’ll take your silence as assent,’ he said coldly, rising from his chair. He stared down at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. ‘And in view of that I’ll excuse myself, if you don’t mind. I have things to do, and no doubt you’d like to get to bed early.’
Her brows arched as he turned and rapidly disappeared through the swinging door to the kitchen. She stared after him for a time, her lips still parted to say something she’d long since forgotten. Finally she left the empty dining-room and went upstairs, trying not to think of the long night ahead.
She unpacked her cases and stepped into a hot shower, her thoughts troubled by those last moments at the table with Marcus. Her discomfort at finding herself alone with him had insulted him, or at least that was what he wanted her to think. An honorable man would have been insulted, of course…and, her cynical side reminded her, a man trying to convince her he was honorable would have pretended to take offense. So which was he?
She scowled at the conundrum as she dried with a fluffy bath-towel that smelled faintly of spring, pulled on a knee-length nightshirt, then collapsed on the bed, certain she would never sleep in this place—at least not until Victor was safely settled in the next room. But the trip had tired her, and perhaps resting for just a moment would help clear her thoughts and sharpen her perspective. She’d lie here with her eyes closed just for a moment, then she’d get up and make a few notes on the things she’d seen so far.
The next time she opened her eyes the little clock on the bedside table read two-fifteen a.m., and the house was blanketed in silence.
She rolled on her back and heard the angry growl of her stomach. ‘Oh, damn,’ she muttered, wishing she’d thought to tuck a few packets of crackers into her bag. She often wrote deep into the night, and by California time she’d be rummaging through the cupboards for a pick-me-up snack right about now.
She lay on her back for a while, listening to branches scraping against the house in the wind, the steady hum of the furnace rumbling from the basement far below, wishing she were anywhere in the world but here.
She wasn’t sure what she had expected perhaps for Marcus to hand over a typewritten copy of his version of the story, and then leave her alone to wander the place by herself —but the strain of dealing with him on a personal level was already wearing her down. She wondered if Victor’s arrival tomorrow would ease the tension or exacerbate it.
Her stomach continued to rumble, and finally she crawled out of bed, pulled her rumpled nightshirt down over her thighs, and went to the chest of drawers to dig for a pair of socks. Furnace or not, there was a definite chill rising from the carpeted floor.
She snatched her robe from a hook in the closet and slipped it on. After a brief, groggy glance in the mirror, she decided no one would see her short hair sleepruffled or the battered old terry robe, and padded quietly from the room and down the broad staircase.
At least Marcus had left a few lights on, so she didn’t have to stumble around in the dark. Victorian sconces on the wall lit the central hall back to the kitchen, and a crack of light sliced from beneath the closed door.
The room was large and surprisingly modern, with gleaming stainless-steel finishes and restaurant-sized appliances. She padded over to the enormous refrigerator, her socks buffing the already shining black and white tiled floor, and spied a plate of blueberry muffins covered with plastic wrap.
Probably for breakfast, she thought, her hand hesitating on the edge of the plate. She felt a little like a sneak thief behind enemy lines, stealing food.
Oh, what the hell? she thought, freeing one muffin from its plastic cave and taking a big bite as she carried the rest over to a large wooden table in the center of the room.
The black glass of a microwave stared back at her from the bank of cupboards she faced, but she ignored it. The muffin was too good cold, and she was too hungry to waste the few seconds it would have taken to warm it. Besides, when she looked down at it, it was already half gone.
‘You’re an animal, Rebecca,’ she chuckled softly, liking the way her voice echoed quietly in the cavernous kitchen.
She demolished a second muffin, the succulent blueberries squirting sweet juice into her mouth, then returned to the refrigerator. She removed a carton of milk, looked around like a guilty child expecting the admonishment of a parent, and drank from the carton, draining it. ‘One dead soldier,’ she quipped, raising the empty carton, ready to shoot for the waste basket across the room, just to see if she could hit it.
‘You’re aiming too far to the right.’
She went rigid at the sound of Marcus’s voice behind her, her hand still holding the milk carton high above her head; then, without so much as a glance in his direction, she let it fly. It landed a bare inch to the right of the waste basket, dribbling its last drops of milk on to the clean tile.
‘I told you so.’
She turned around, her face far too serious for a woman caught shooting baskets in her stockinged feet and an oversized robe. ‘I.woke up hungry.’
‘Obviously.’ He was standing in the doorway, his hair whipped into disarray, his eyes darker than ever in a face reddened by the cold. He’s been outside, she thought, noting the black windbreaker he wore over his sweater.
For some reason the thought of him stalking around outside in the dark, a shadow among shadows, made her shiver.
‘May I come in?’
‘It’s your kitchen.’
He walked past her over to the table and sat down, leaving the crisp fragrance of an autumn night in his wake. She followed him with her eyes, her lips tightening with disapproval at his presence, as if she had every right to be here and he had none.
He didn’t just sit in the chair—he sprawled all over it, one arm flung over its back, long legs stretched out to the side and crossed at the ankle. The pose seemed almost intentionally arrogant.
‘Did you find enough to eat?’
She flushed a little. ‘Yes, thank you. I ate…two muffins,’ she said, and then she scowled because it had sounded so much like a guilty confession. To avoid looking at him, she ripped a paper towel from a roll on the counter and went to wipe up the spilled milk. She imagined she could feel h
is amused smile on the back of her neck.
‘Eat them all, if you like. They were made for you, after all.’
She concentrated fiercely on scrubbing circles where the few drops of milk had spattered, troubled by the picture of him bent over a hot oven, sliding in a tin of muffins. Cooking was a process of creation, and according to Charity Lauder Marcus Flint was a destroyer. ‘Well,’ she said, standing up so she could look down at him, ‘in any case, they were delicious. Thank you very much.’ Her brows dropped into a suspicious frown. ‘What are you smiling at? What’s so funny?’
He covered his mouth briefly, erasing his smile, then cleared his throat. ‘You are. All that dignity you’re mustering.’ The smile came back. ‘It just doesn’t go with the outfit.’
Rebecca dropped her head to cover a bright flush of embarrassment, and saw her stockinged feet poking out from beneath the sagging hem of her robe.
‘Come sit down, Rebecca.’ It was the first time he’d used her first name.
‘I was just about to go to bed…’
‘No, you weren’t. You just got up.’
When she lifted her eyes he was looking straight at her, challenging her almost, and finally she shrugged and took the chair opposite him.
‘What were you doing outside?’ she asked him, watching as he took off the windbreaker and tossed it on a chair.
‘Walking. And thinking. About you, actually.’
‘About me? Why?’
‘Because you require a lot of thought.’
She frowned impatiently. ‘Hardly. I’m an open book. I am what you see.’
He smiled crookedly. ‘Aren’t we all? The trick is in the seeing.’ She fidgeted under his gaze. ‘What happened to your parents?’
Rebecca started, looked up sharply. ‘Why?’
‘Just curious. You mentioned a stepmother, and stepsisters.’
A note of wariness crept into her eyes. ‘My mother died when I was young,’ she replied, ‘and my father remarried. She already had three daughters of her own.’
‘A blended family,’ he mused. ‘That’s what they call it these days, isn’tit?’
Rebecca’s smile was tight. ‘Blended’ was hardly the word she would have chosen to describe the pseudofamily she’d been part of for four years. Her face altered subtly as unwelcome memories came calling: the once inviolate relationship with her father crumbling gradually under the assault of her stepmother’s jealousy; the sullen bitterness of stepsisters who refused to accept the stranger in their midst—all too close to the Cinderella story he’d joked about, with a few critical differences. She’d been the ugly, unremarkable one, forever overshadowed by the beauty and talents of the other three, a natural target for their contempt.
‘I imagine they’re all very proud of your success.’
She was so preoccupied with her memories that she spoke without thinking. ‘I doubt it. My father died the day after I graduated from high school. I haven’t seen the rest of them since.’
He didn’t say anything, but she caught the quick, sympathetic tightening of skin around his eyes, and in that instant, her face froze with the realization of how very much she had told him—more than she’d ever told anyone, even Victor. She’d never wanted anyone to know she was virtually alone in the world; never wanted to be the target of the pity that inevitably followed such a revelation, as if being alone were some sort of incurable disease…
‘You never married.’
She almost laughed out loud. Never married? She wondered what he’d say if he knew that the longest conversation she’d ever had with a man was the one they were having now. ‘No, I never married.’
And now he would ask her if she wasn’t lonely. Poor old Rebecca, sweet twenty-six and never been kissed…
‘Did you always want to be a writer?’
‘It was so far afield from what she’d expected him to ask that she had to stop and think a moment before replying. ‘I wrote my first story with a crayon, if that’s any indication.’
He smiled a little, pushed his sleeves up to his elbows, then braced his forearms on the table. She looked down at the dark hairs curled over the ridge of muscle that angled up his forearm. ‘Well, then. You’ve realized your dreams, haven’t you?’
‘Dreams?’ she repeated tonelessly, strangely fascinated by the line on the inside of his arm where the hair abruptly stopped growing.
‘Your childhood dreams of becoming a writer.’
‘I didn’t have any childhood dreams,’ she said absently. ‘Writing was just something I fell into.’ She looked up at his face, sensing that she’d said something wrong.
He was looking right at her, his pupils pin-points of black in a gray sea, as if he were staring into the sun. ‘We all have childhood dreams,’ he said quietly.
Her eyes flickered with interest. Maybe she’d get a piece of his story tonight after all. ‘What were yours?’
His face closed with the suddenness of a door slamming. ‘Ask Charity Lauder.’ He spat the name more than said it. ‘She destroyed them.’
Rebecca’s brows twitched in angry confusion. What was he trying to pull? Charity Lauder hadn’t destroyed his dreams; if anything, he’d destroyed hers. ‘What have you lost?’ she demanded. ‘You’ve still got your wealth, you’ve still got this place; the book may have damaged your reputation, but that’s not…’
‘The book? The book? You think I care about the goddamn book?’
He’d almost shouted the last, and Rebecca pressed hard against the back of her chair, startled by his sudden transformation from quiet, almost congenial host to…whatever he was now. Or perhaps there hadn’t been a transformation at all. Perhaps this raging fury was the man that had always lurked beneath that superficial cordiality.
His hand tightened into a white fist on the table. He looked down at it, clearly struggling to control his temper. Finally he took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, and Rebecca relaxed a little, although her eyes remained watchful.
‘If you don’t care about the book, why am I here?’
His sudden scowl drew a deep indentation between his brows. When he finally spoke again, it sounded as if the words were being pulled from his mouth against his will, one by one. ‘Because I want to destroy Charity Lauder before she destroys what’s left of me. I want revenge for what she’s done, and you’re the only person who can see that I get it.’
The words seemed to hang in the air as they stared at each other. Unnerved by the brutal honesty of his reply, Rebecca was clutching her hands out of sight in her lap. So this was the real Marcus Flint—a man twisted by bitterness, cruelly intent on exacting vengeance. That’s horrible,’ she whispered without thinking.
He barked a chilling laugh. ‘What? Wanting to avenge a wrong? At one time or another in our lives we all want that, Miss Hutchinson, but most of us are reluctant to admit it. That’s the real sin, isn’t it? Saying it out loud?’
Rebecca frowned, assaulted suddenly by the memories of helpless rage that still lingered, years later, rage that had fired her determination, given her the strength to overcome adversity, pushing her to the kind of success that would make her stepsisters sorry…
She caught her breath at the realization that in this, at least, she was no better than he was. Perhaps no one was. But still…to carry such a grudge, to want to destroy someone simply because they’d rejected you? That was sick, wasn’t it? Is it, Rebecca? Isn’t that why you hate your stepmother and stepsisters? Because they locked you out? Because they rejected you? a voice inside her challenged.
She swallowed hard and tried to keep her voice steady. ‘I have no intention of becoming the instrument of your revenge, Mr Flint.’
His smile was dark. ‘I know. That’s why you’re going to be so good at it.’
Finally he dropped his eyes and scrubbed at his face with his hands. She could hear the rasp of his whiskers against his palms. Afterwards he placed his hands flat on the table and studied them for a long moment before pushing himself
to his feet. ‘It’s late,’ he said, his voice suddenly weary, the bitterness gone. When he looked up at her he was the quiet man again—the one who’d sat with her on the front porch to watch the sun set behind the hill, the one whose gentle questioning had opened her past as no one else had ever done, almost painlessly. He was a total enigma, and now, at last, she was afraid of him.
He got up and walked toward the door to the hall, but then paused as he passed her chair, almost as an afterthought. ‘If I could have one wish, it would be that you weren’t a part of this.’
She looked up into those mysterious gray eyes, wondering what lay behind them, and in that moment he reached out to touch her cheek lightly with the fingers of one hand. When she instinctively jerked away and jumped to her feet, his features stiffened.
‘You are afraid of me. She’s done that, too, damn her to hell.’
‘No,’ she said, but even as the word left her lips she was backing mindlessly away from him until she bumped the refrigerator, rattling the bottles inside. She stood there with her back pressed against the cold enamel, watching him watch her from across the room. After a few moments, she began to feel a little foolish. ‘You startled me,’ she tried to explain.
‘I terrified you,’ he said bitterly as he approached her. ‘You don’t know the first thing about me and still you’re terrified. Are you going to tell me the book didn’t do that? Do you expect me to believe that this is the way you always respond when a man touches you?’
Rebecca blinked rapidly, biting down on her lower lip to keep it from quivering. How the hell was she supposed to know how she would respond to the touch of a man? She’d never felt it before.
Although the sudden press of his hand as he cupped her chin was insolent, it was something else, too—something she didn’t want to think about.
‘Don’t do that,’ she whispered up at him.
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